


I Have Measured Out My Life (In Espresso Shooters)

by thehighwaywoman



Series: Spectacles 'Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Future Fic, Glasses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehighwaywoman/pseuds/thehighwaywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is coffee, hints of a hunt, a prank meandering southward, and silver-rimmed spectacles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Have Measured Out My Life (In Espresso Shooters)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LiveJournal in October 2007.

"And what can I get for you, sir?"

Dean smiles extra-wide and extra-charming so he doesn't grimace. Jeez, time was he'd have taken one look at this tiny, mocha-skinned waif with huge gray eyes and Cassie's twisty curly kind of hair and a chest that would make a blind man weep, and… where was he?

Oh, yeah. Kinda feeling a lot like a dirty old man.

Her smile's gotten a little plastic-looking, so Dean reins it in with a cough and a scratch to his jaw. See, nothing creepy here at all. "Okay, so…" Damn cafés who haven't served plain coffee since the early 1990's, anyway. "Whatever you've got that's dark roast, and I mean _dark_ , no sugar, no cream, just black and really strong." He rubs his eyes. " _Really_ strong. Got that?"

She smirks at him, no doubt with some comment about older men and energy levels on the tip of her pert little tongue, so he brings his own smile back with an extra fifteen degrees of sunshine and butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth innocence. _Who, me?_

A bell rings over the door, something pretty and silvery-toned. Wind chimes doing double duty, sounds like. Dean glances over on automatic reflex and lifts his chin to Sam, ambling in, his heavy beige jacket soaked through and the amazingly ugly brown-and-blue-striped chambray shirt underneath so wet it clings to his chest.

Dean's mouth goes a little dry. Damn, if he didn't know how good he himself looks in his forties, he'd really hate Sam for looking this fine at forty-two. Even with those stupid silver-rimmed glasses (okay, they're hot as fuck, but he reserves teasing rights), he's one hell of a catch.

Little Miss Coffee stops in the middle of scribbling Dean's name on the paper cup in heavy black marker and gapes at Sam. Dean regards her dilating gray eyes and mentally pats Sammy on the back. Kinda sexy to know the guy he holds primary fucking claim over can still pull 'em with the best, yeah?

Sam stops in the doorway, looking like a puppy who's just found a way in out of the rain, which, er… okay. He strips off his glasses and tries to dry them on his shirt, which is a pretty pointless exercise but Sam's never gonna learn about some things. That's why he still needs Dean, Dean figures. 

And the sex isn't bad.

Actually, it's flippin' sweet.

Before he starts thinking all kinds of dirty, crazy things about what he'd like to do to Sam with the elegant gunmetal gray cans of whipped cream and chocolate syrup behind the counter, thinking they'd taste better licked off slightly salty skin…

Okay, trying that again. Slightly embarrassed, Dean coughs and clears his throat. Luckily, Little Miss Coffee hasn't noticed a single eyelash flicker from Dean since Sam walked in. 

Wait, Sam wanted a coffee too. Dean checks his wallet more out of habit than any actual concern, and he's pleased to see that he can get Sam something totally awesome. Or he would, if Sam actually allowed actual cream and cane sugar and chocolate within fifty feet of his tongue (sex games don't count, he says, and Dean's okay with that minor inconsistency).

Huh. Dean grins to himself, hiding it quick behind a scruff of the hand when Sam puts his rain-smeared glasses back on and gazes at him like a mournful basset hound stretched up seven feet tall. That's a seriously disturbing image, so Dean shunts that one aside and concentrates on the execution of his plan.

"One for him too, thanks," he says, scanning the menu board behind her head. He kinda has to squint to read the curlicues and flourishes of every-color pastel chalks, and in the end he just guesses. "Latte. You still make those? Good. Latte, full fat milk, real Godiva syrup, six sugars, that peppermint candy stuff, umm… more of the Godiva, and a quad-shot of espresso. What I want is the kind of coffee that has to be _chewed_ , not drunk. Okay?"

Little Miss Coffee is staring at him, looking equal parts respectful and terrified. "Um, is that instead of or with the black coffee?"

"Along with. The gooey one's for him." Dean jerks his thumb at Sam, who's wandered over to the newspaper rack, carefully not dripping on the folded headlines. Always gotta have something to read, that one. "It's a treat for him, though, so make it extra good and sweet, 'kay?"

She comes to her own conclusion. "We have some birthday sprinkles. Would you like those?" Looking past Dean, she eats Sam up with her eyes and doesn't even try to be subtle about it. "If you want to have a seat, I can bring them both out to you."

Sam's already taken his newspaper to one of the low wooden tables covered in other rumpled-open newspapers, and it's still raining like cats and dogs out there, so why not? "Thanks, miss." Dean winks at her, making the _click-click_ sound with his tongue that makes Sam's eyelid twitch and "fires" a gun at her with his thumb and forefinger.

He's kinda surprised she doesn't come around the corner of the counter and kick his ass, but hey, count your blessings, right?

When he reaches the table where Sam's parked himself, it's pure habit for Dean to rub the back of Sam's neck regardless of cold, drippy strands of hair, and brush his thumb over the pulse under Sam's jaw. It's small, but it's worth it for both of them. 

As always, Sam's like a cat or something, the way he turns to Dean with this soft, happy little-kid grin when Dean pulls even a tiny PDA. Pushes some kinda button in him. It's not Dean's usual thing unless he's completely smashed, but sometimes he just gets an urge and goes with it.

Besides, a little chick-flick touchy-feely won't kill him. Or so says Sam.

Dean's seen too many weird things you'd never think could cause anyone any harm do away with some decent people, so this is an argument they've never really resolved after twenty years and counting.

Sam catches him by the wrist as Dean swings his chair around to straddle it backwards, and by God if he doesn't pull Dean's hand to his mouth and kiss it. Dean feels his face go red clear up to the tips of his ears. 

"Shut up," Sam says cheerfully, "you know you like it."

Dean glares at him, promising dire punishment later. Sam's eyes twinkle at him behind those silver-rimmed glasses and he smiles as if he doesn't have a care in the world, like he's even forgotten getting soaked to the skin in that sudden freak rain storm. Like he's got no worries, you know? Nothing to be scared of.

Okay, for that Dean can handle a touch of public embarrassment.

"So where's the coffee?"

"She's bringing it to us." Dean frowns. Glowing is one thing, freezing to death because he's forgetting to take care of himself is something altogether different. "Take that jacket off, would you? Before you catch frickin' pneumonia or something."

Sam obediently starts skinning out of the wet cloth. "Is your phone still dry? I think mine might be toast."

"Who do you need to call?" Dean tries to snatch Sam's newspaper, hoping it's got a decent funnies page in there.

Sam flat-palms the paper. "Go get your own. I need to call Gerri."

"Who? Don't be selfish, bitch. I bought you coffee. Share."

"Gerri's the manager I talked to at the _Tattered Cover_ ," Sam reminds him, refusing to budge. "I don't think we're gonna make it before they close tonight, after all. She'll be looking for us, and I need to tell her it'll be tomorrow. I need your phone to call her."

"Uh-huh. And you didn't think about screwing up your phone when you got out on the side of the road in the middle of a thunderstorm?"

"Like I was going to sit in there and twiddle my thumbs while you were changing the flat tire. That's a shitty thing for anyone to do. The least I could do was hold an umbrella over your head."

Dean mumbles something that sounds sort of like "thanks" under his breath, 'cause he does owe Sam, and he's a lot drier than Sam right now, hence their stop in the café in the first place, to get something hot inside his brother before he freezes to death. That rain is _cold_.

But y'know, he can't fling himself adoringly into Sam's arms and call him "my hero", so he goes with what he knows instead. "That's what you get for buying the newest piece of flash, Sam." Dean pats his phone, snug and dry in his inner coat pocket. "You gotta learn to stick with the classics." He drifts away on a momentary contented sigh, thinking about the Impala. 

Sam makes a face at him. Dean grins back, broad and bright, because sometimes he's the one who can read _Sam's_ mind. "Don't complain, man. There's some good memories attached to my baby."

"Name one." Sam challenges as he reaches for Dean's hand to let him know he's mostly not truly irked, trailing his long, tapered fingers over the back. Sometimes Dean wonders if Sam's hands are altogether human, 'cause _damn_. And the things he can do with those monster paws when they're sexin' it up? _Damn_ again, and make that a double.

"Hmm." Dean pretends deep thought, even though his mind already went there. "Okay, how about the time when we had to spend a couple of weeks at Bobby's fixing her up back in '09?"

"Dean, don't you dare," Sam warns, sitting up sharp and straight.

Too late. Dean dares anything. Sam should know that by now. Dean whistles softly at the impact the memory still has for him. "This was back when Bobby didn't know, right? So we were goin' _crazy_ , man, totally batshit insane, horny as fuck and nothing to do about it 'cause Bobby sleeps like a cat, y'know?"

"Dean, shut up. Now."

Dean cackles at his seething mountain of a brother. This is way too much fun to quit now. "Hey, you're the one who had the brass 'nads to do what you did in the first place, man. I'm just enjoying my trip to yesteryear here. So, there we were, and one day I came out of the house, my hands full of beer bottles and crackers and stuff, and what to my wondering eyes does appear?" Dean sits back and mimes "shock".

Sam kicks his ankle.

Dean kicks right back and keeps on going. "Why, I do seem to remember our little Sammy, bare-ass naked, laid out on the hood of the Impala." _God_ , does he ever remember. The frosty longnecks dropped unheeded from suddenly numb fingers when he saw Sam, so tall his head rested on the top of the car and his splayed legs dangled off the hood, hand lazily stroking his cock, eyes closed and lips curved up. 

Dean shudders, feeling that slam of lust again and has to reach down with his free hand and subtly adjust his jeans. "Now that, my man, is a good memory."

"Fine. Okay." Sammy's lookin' a little squirmy there, but in the fun way. "I warned you, man. Just remember that you asked for this."

"I what? _Whoa_." Without any warning, Sam's hand slides up Dean's thigh and hovers over the upper inseam, just resting his fingertips there, letting Dean know where he is.

"You wouldn't," Dean says, hoping to hell he would and will.

"Watch me."

Okay, fine. It's on. 

Dean hitches forward in his chair, only able to slide an inch or so, but it's close enough. He lays his hand atop Sam's, shifting it up and molding it down. He manages -- just -- not to hiss through his teeth, though he does draw in a short, sharp breath, and rocks into Sam's hand.

Sam's eyes are huge behind his glasses, and despite the silver strands in his hair he looks like he's maybe seventeen. 

Ooh, naughty. Dean likes it. He rolls his hips. "New kink here, Sam? I'm up for it." He leers. "Or maybe you could tell."

"Are you insane?" Sam demands, keeping it on the QT. "I was trying to teach you a lesson, jerk."

"Gonna play naughty professor? I could do a spanking for being bad."

"Shut up, Dean. I'm not giving you an actual hand job in a coffee bar!"

"Never said you had to." Dean can't help but notice how much his brother _doesn't_ fight him. This is gonna be awesome in more ways than one. See, Sam's all about the cuddling and sugary closed-mouth smooches in public, but getting him to lose control takes the fine skills of a master. He aligns his fingers as perfectly with Sam's as he can and presses each in turn like they're playing cock scales or something. 

Sam's eyes are dilated and dazed, but he's still protesting. "Indecent exposure, Dean." He pushes against Dean, and boy, is it ever not a hardship -- heh, heh -- to rock back, tiny rolls of his hips that get him exactly what he wants. "You're gonna scar that barista for life."

"Nah, chicks love seeing two guys get it on," Dean replies with the supreme confidence gained from years upon years of scanning the 'net for any and all porn he can find. "Bet she'd pay for the whole show."

" _Dean_." Sam's scandalized, or doing a great job pretending. 

Is his hand moving, though? Yeah, but it's not moving _away_ , no sir.

Dean decides to up the ante. He slides his fingers up Sam's leg. "Bet you'd love it," he says, keeping it to a whisper so Sam really won't bolt and run. He tests the waters, so to speak, and they're spectacular. Sam's eyes flicker briefly back in his head when he's cradled for a tantalizing, teasing moment. "Seriously, man, she's not even looking over here. She'd never know if I got down here on my knees, under the table, and pulled _this_ down." He flicks the tab of Sam's zipper. "How quiet could you be, Sam?" 

He's actually genuinely curious about that. Sam hardly ever makes noise during sex, not even when he comes. It's usually just a sharp breath, his eyes squeezing shut tight while his throat arches, and good night, folks. It'd be so amazing to make Sam go crazy enough to drop his, er, dignity _in public_.

Jesus, what a thought. Dean shoves Sam's hand briefly aside to re-adjust his jeans. Huh. Well, that ain't gonna work, is it?

He glances at the barista, who, seeing as the café is deserted aside from the Winchester brothers/horndogs, has plugged herself into an iPod and is putting together possibly the world's slowest, sugariest café mocha. She wouldn't notice a tornado blasting through.

So, what the hell, y'know? Her loss. Dean shrugs, flips open the buttons of his jeans, and pulls it out with a huge, relieved sigh.

Sam almost swallows his tongue and Dean's only ever seen shock that comical in the cartoons. It's fantastic. Why haven't they done this before? (When they're sober, anyway; he knows it's happened when they're smashed, but if you can't remember it, it doesn't count.)

"My God," Sam whispers, staring. His fingers shake just a fraction or two when he strokes the tips down the length of Dean's cock, a spectacular example of the male genitalia if Dean does say so himself and lookin' good today, so filthy fuckin' obscene that he's momentarily dizzy. Dean bites back a groan when Sam quits playing around and wraps his fist fully around Dean's cock.

"I cannot believe we're doing this," he hisses, moving his wrist with firm, purposeful strokes.

"Hell, yeah, we are," Dean breathes, shutting his eyes and enjoying the ride. "Harder, man, I can take it."

"You so owe me for this."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Dean's chest hitches. "Fuck, yeah. Again." He bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn't yell when Sam pinches the bundle of nerves under the glans the exact, most perverted way Dean likes best.

This whole trip is going down in the journal. Not the hunting journal. Sam doesn't know he keeps this particular log, but what Sam doesn't know Sam can't bitch at him about.

And there's no way in hell Sam's ever gonna get a look inside the pages if Dean can help it. C'mon, stuff like _September 18, 2016, found one of those Chewy Chalk candies Sammy used to love (when he was like eight) and bought it for him. Note: Sam gets really horny on three bags of gummy cherry-flavored chalk_ and _February 10, 2020, remember this year unless you want to sleep in the garage again_. 

Dude. Stuff like that is like a written vasectomy or something. 

Dean's only okay with it, mostly, because on days like today he'll write down, _yanked Sam's chains until he jerked me off in a café_. Now that's talent.

Sam hitches his chair closer to Dean's, breathing hard through his nose, splaying his free hand wide over the small of Dean's back. "You're a sick, sick man, Dean," he whispers, never letting up once, thumb circling. "You're paying me back for this."

"Uh-huh." Right now, Dean's okay with the idea of being Sam's bitch for a while. Once they're done here. "God _damn_ , man, where'd you learn that?"

"Shut up." Sam's close in Dean's space right now, and if Little Miss Coffee looks over right now they _are_ gonna end up getting arrested, but to be frank Dean couldn't care less. "Whatever I want. Whenever I want it. Promise me, Dean, or I stop right now."

"Stop and you're a dead man."

"So you're gonna give me whatever I want?"

The moon, the stars, what-the-fuck-ever, it's all good. "Yeah," Dean says, so close that he's kneading Sam's leg in short, capillary tugs. "Name it."

"I know what I want."

_Good for you,_ Dean thinks, kind of annoyed at the talking, but that's Sam's thing. Unless he's actually nailing or getting nailed, when it's hush-hush time, he's chattering on and on like a wind-up sex toy. 

Out loud, he grunts softly and rocks faster.

"Remember," Sam says, biting under Dean's cheekbone, apparently to hell with the public restrictions, "you gave your word." He pauses, jerk-off hand halting mid-stroke, and breathes against Dean's lips, "As soon as you can walk again? We're going behind the café, man, you and me, and I'm fucking you up against the wall."

_Jesus_ mercy. That's not playing fair. At all. Dean is deeply humiliated by the whine that escapes his lips, and is glad Sam's there to hold the chair steady when he bucks hard enough to make it screech on the floor and wham, there goes Old Faithful.

He collapses face-first on the table, cradling his head on his crossed forearms. Sam is chuckling, the bitch, taking care of tucking and zipping and then wiping his hands carefully on coffee bar napkins. "Fair's fair, man," he says.

Dean finds the energy to flip him off.

"Um… hi. Your, um, coffee." 

Dean's eyes fly open and he gawks at Little Miss Coffee, who looks like she wants to run away but can't because she can't _prove_ anything. "Coffee," he croaks. "Fantastic."

"Don't mind him. I think he's catching a cold," Sam replies amiably. "All this rain, you know?" The corners of his eyes crinkle up, damned sexy in Dean's opinion, and regardless of her undoubtable suspicions, Little Miss Coffee's starting to bat her eyelashes and glow again. 

"Oh, yeah," she agrees, carefully maneuvering a cardboard tray with two tall paper cups wedged in on their table. "You should watch out for yourself too, you know? I mean, if your wife or your girlfriend gets sick…"

Dean coughs over a snicker. God, what an obvious ploy.

Sam -- and this is one of the best reasons to love the guy -- smiles happily at her and ruffles up Dean's hair (which he chooses not to get pissed off about just then) and gives him the sappiest of smiles. You can't really mistake that for a platonic move. "I'm good to take care of him," he says. 

And then he kinda shatters Dean's world by saying, "That's what he does for me, all the time, and that's what I'll always do for him."

Dean keeps his head down until Little Miss Coffee has stumbled over a few "careful, it's hot" instructions and made tracks away from them. Then he cracks his eyelids open and looks over at Sam, who's looking back at him, kind of unreadable around the mouth. Also distinguished as hell with the silver strands of hair and the silver glasses, and hot as fuck with his hazel eyes blazing, and his cock a hard, thick distortion in his jeans.

He can't just _say_ it, not out loud, not in a public café. (Shut up. Hand jobs are _totally_ different.) So he thumps Sam's leg and stands up, careful of his balance since his knees are still kinda shaky. 

Sam tilts his head. "Dean?"

Dean summons up his best cocky smirk. "I feel like stretching my legs, y'know, taking a walk around the café while the coffee cools. You wanna come?"

Sam's grin is brighter than the first glimpse of sun on the horizon after a night of storms, and Dean would swear he almost lights up, himself.

They never do go back and finish their coffee, so the whole prank with the gazillion spoons of sugar and the sprinkles has to wait for later, and he has to come up with something else.

It ends up involving Fun-Dip and handcuffs, but that's when they finally make it to Denver late that night, and that's another story.


End file.
